


Banana Yucca Pancakes

by TheViperQueen



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-26 21:49:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1703738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheViperQueen/pseuds/TheViperQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the mist of making pancakes with his lover, Arcade has an epiphany.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Banana Yucca Pancakes

Arcade Gannon is many things: a bibliophile, a reluctant doctor, and to a select few the owner of the “Gannon Cannon” (though the people who knew him as such were far, far away from the Mojave _thank God_ ). He’s all of that and more, but the one thing that he never has to worry about be accused of is being a romantic. If he had any doubts about just how badly he was lacking in the whole ‘lovey-dovey’ department all of his past lovers had made sure to stamp them down thoroughly. _Overly logical_ and _snarky_ were the terms that they had more usually attributed him with. But all of that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t care- on the contrary, he allows himself to care too much. His thirty-plus years of living in a post-apocalyptic world and a decade of working with the Followers has shown him that getting too attached to anyone is a truly horrible idea. But of course his heart had to go and ignore all those years of acquired wisdom and fall ever so foolishly for the Courier.

Beck is without a doubt the single most accident-prone man in the entirety of New Vegas. Boone constantly makes an argument for the entirety of the country, but Arcade thinks that’s being a bit harsh. Sure the man can seemingly set off any and all floor based traps within a ten foot radius and yeah, he did have a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time –the sizable circle of scar tissue that could occasionally be seen under his mass of dusky curls was a testament to that- but nobody was perfect. Though standing just outside of the long abandoned house's tiny kitchen watching Beck attempt to glare a hole straight through the overturned bowl on the ground Arcade thinks that he’s as close to perfection as any one human should ever be.

If he was one to wax poetic about such things he’d probably be having an inner monologue about the kind and gentle heart that had attracted him to the man in the first place. Or, maybe more appropriately given that he was clad in nothing but his underthings, maybe he’d go on about the play of strong, firm muscle under rich chestnut skin. But Arcade is not one to wax poetic about anything that wasn't written before the Hellenic period so instead he clears his throat loudly enough for the Courier to hear him (he had made the mistake of approaching the man once before unannounced, nearly having his arm forcefully removed from his body insured that he would never do so again) and fully enters the room.

“Lily always makes it look so easy,” Beck says, a sheepish grin lifting the corners of his mouth.

Normally being woken up by a litany of bangs and curses would put the doctor in a thoroughly foul mood, but seeing his lover covered almost from head to toe in a fine dusting of white powder is more than enough to stay his ire. He doesn’t bother trying to stifle his laugher as he moves to return the bowl to the counter. The Courier has screwed his features up into something that is dangerously close to a pout and the sight makes him laugh even more. On any other man of his stature it would look utterly ridiculous, but Beck’s big eyes and floppy curls puts him in mind of a puppy that got into a fight with a sack of flour and lost.

Shoulders still shaking just a bit, Arcade pulls the slightly shorter man in so that his bare back is against his chest. “What, pray tell, were you trying to do?” he inquires with a voice still roughened from his broken slumber. He can feel Beck’s breathing catch at his cadence, though for his part the man only leans back further into his embrace.

“Well I was going to try to surprise you with breakfast in bed but, well-” he gestures to the mound of off white dust that still lies on the dingy linoleum floor. “You can see how well that turned out.” The all too familiar note of self-depreciation in his voice is the only thing that keeps Arcade from laughing again. It would seem as if his lover is just as bad at the whole romantic bit. Grant it, it’s for different reasons entirely, but the blond still takes solace in it. Beck rests his head on Arcade’s shoulder and peeks up at him. “Sorry for waking you.”

“It’s fine,” Arcade assures him, his words sincere. “But now that I am awake how about we try to tackle this whole– wait, what were you making?”

“Pancakes, or more specifically banana pancakes. Or as close as I can get to them anyway.”

“Right. Well I think that if we go at this together we might have a better shot at actually producing something edible.”

After the pair has set the kitchen to rights they start in on the meal. Beck’s hazel eyes go a little blank as he recites the measurements, pulling up the various amounts from his eidetic memory. Arcade, not being equally blessed, has to scramble for a pencil and paper to write it all down. The ingredients that they’re using would have been commonplace before the War, but now they’re extremely rare outside of the Republic’s territories and highly expensive. The stark white baking powder that he dumps into the bowl is actually more exotic than the deathclaw egg that Beck measures out with a shot glass. His mind tries to come up with a roundabout figure of just how many caps are going into the making of this dish; the estimate makes him blanch just a little.

As Arcade stirs the thick batter Beck beats what’s left of the egg with a fork. Few words are exchanged between them as they both tend to their respective tasks. With his exs, Arcade had always felt the need to fill up any silence that stretched on longer than a few moments with something, be it his prattling or that of the radio, but this silence- it’s good, comfortable. With Beck he doesn’t feel like he needs to be… well anything really. He can just exist, can just _be_. When they’re together he isn’t the child that’s constantly striving to live up to a dead man’s expectations or the charge of an ex-virtibird pilot or even a Follower of the Apocalypse- he’s just Arcade Israel Gannon, an enthusiast of socioeconomics and long dead languages.

As his lover begins to hum some old world tune that he doesn’t recognize Arcade can feel his chest tightening with an emotion that is far too complex for him to examine so soon after waking up. But the feeling is not so easily dismissed. Never before in his life has he ever felt this level of acceptance, not even from the women who raised him. He’s never felt so cherished, so wanted, so… _loved_. Suddenly he wants to fill up the small space with declarations of love that are more grandiose than Shakespeare in his prime, but he knows that he’s no Horace.

How can he tell this man that he gives him a sense of stability, a thing that he’s never felt before in the entirety of his thirty-five years?  
How can he tell him that he can make any place feel like home?

He’s not sure that even his impressive vocabulary can properly give voice to his thoughts so he settles for sliding his hand into his partner’s. The gesture feels too simplistic, but he hopes that it can convey all that he is feeling and his desire to give it all back to him tenfold if he’ll allow it. The smile that Beck gives him as he intertwines their fingers is just as simple but the gestures hold more reassurance than any words ever could.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Other Places This Story Can Be Found:**  
>  _Fallout Kmeme_ http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/5646.html?thread=12398862#t12398862


End file.
